


Unbreakable

by useless_lesbean



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Minor Character Death, Torture, Violence, but i dont think it will get to graphic, but that wont be for long, def lots of hurt. eventual comfort, hopefully, i guess?, just later on, living Sylvanas, more tags will be added as it continues!, technically canon character death, this is NOT momvanas, this isnt happy fluffy times, undead Lirath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-11-23 15:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/useless_lesbean/pseuds/useless_lesbean
Summary: Lirath survives the Second War, but the Third still demands the life of a Windrunner. Sylvanas lives, but at a price- taken captive by the Lich King. But Windrunners will always endure, and when she is freed, they will take Azeroth by storm.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corgi_bliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corgi_bliss/gifts).



> I've had parts of this AU written for months, but was never going to share it ~~(like everything else I wrote until slackergami called me out with momvanas :V )~~ but corgi gave me some confidence, so thank you corgi! :D

Lirath was never meant for war. For battle. For the Rangers. To be part of the defense of Quel'thalas.  
He was never as strong or as quick or as brave as his sisters and his mother. Even if he had dreamed and hoped and pleaded with every god he could think of- he knew he would never be good enough. His sisters tried to encourage him, to train him- but they all knew. Everyone knew.  
Lirath was a musician. He was a passable mage, like his father.  
But _never_ a soldier.

He finally admitted that to himself when their family was slaughtered by orcs, and he hadn't managed to even kind of fight back. When he only survived because Sylvanas and Alleria arrived just in time.  
He was the only survivor. He was the reason no one _else_ survived, why Alleria was lost beyond the Dark Portal. The guilt tore at him still today. 

Musician.  
Mage.  
Youngest.  
_Weak._  
But never a fighter.

So why then, was he running towards the battle, instead of away? Why wasn't he following the civilians fleeing in terror as the undead descended? Why wasn't he with the other mages, lending what little aid he could? Trying to defend those even weaker than he?

If you asked him years later, Lirath would still say he didn't know for sure. All he knew, was that Sylvanas was out there alone. His only family left in the world was his two sisters, and one of them was facing a monster, alone. One of them would die today, defending her people to her last breath- 

And she would do it _alone._

Lirath wouldn't let her. 

So he ran, dodging around fleeing people, throwing all of his energy into blinks when he could, blasting arcane at swooping Scourge that grabbed at him- but never stopping.  
He knew Sylvanas would be close. The fact that any undead at all had managed to breach the city meant the monster was at their door. That is where she would be, if she still lived.

She had to still live. She _had to._

But what if she didn't? What if he was too late- again? What if he failed- again? He ran faster, calling on every drop of magic in him to throw himself forward. Vaulting the shattered gates, weaving around ghouls, dodging rangers and soldiers fighting them, leaping over bodies that twitched to rise again. Over the bridge, into the tulip fields, faster faster _faster-_

Suddenly there she was. _Alive._

The undead were going around her, mowing down everything in their paths on the way to Silvermoon- but not her. And his blood ran cold when he realized why.

The human prince sat atop his monstrous horse, and he was facing off Sylvanas.

Sylvanas, who was bleeding from dozens of wounds already. Sylvanas, who’s shoulders heaved with exhaustion. Sylvanas, who was covered in gore and soot and sweat. Sylvanas, who's armor was torn and ripped to shreds and gone. Sylvanas, who had only her short swords, one broken in half. 

Sylvanas, who had no chance.

But still, she didn't run. She didn't cower. She didn't beg, or plead, or cry. She didn't fall to her knees in despair. She stood tall. Proud. Sylvanas, the Ranger-General who would give her last breath for her people- even though she knew she wouldn't win. His big sister. 

The human raised his glowing sword. His armor and weapon had no marks. He had not been fighting.  
Coward. A coward who waited until she was weak, until she was tired. Who would stay on his horse and run her down.

_Coward._

He charged, kicking his horse to a gallop. Sylvanas raised her broken blades, shouting out one, final cry of rage and defiance. Brave until the end.

Brave, like Lirath always wanted to be. Brave, like was his last chance to be. 

With the last of his reserves, he blinked one, final time-

-and _pushed._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
\------------------------

_“Lirath!”_ Sylvanas screamed, trying to get herself back on her feet. He had pushed her out of the way- and now he stood pierced by the sword in her place.  
Her little brother. He was supposed to have been already evacuated. He was supposed to be safe, far away from the death and destruction. Her gentle baby brother with his musician’s heart had no place here.

Lirath’s eyes met hers, shocked and pained and already glazed over. Blood bubbled over his lips as his mouth moved in the syllables of her name.

“Lirath...” Sylvanas managed to get on her knees, holding herself up with one hand. She reached out with the other, and his hand half rose in her direction-

Only to seize and jerk, his eyes starting to glow bright as tendrils of foul magic burst out and wrapped over him. They formed pointed and plunged into his body, invading and twisting his very soul. His mouth opened, throat cording, but no scream came forth.

“How touching,” The human Prince chuckled, withdrawing his sword. The wet squelch and crunch of the blade leaving Lirath’s body made her cry out. His body hung there, suspended by the shadowy magic. “Your little brother sacrificed his life for yours,”

To her mounting horror, the magic raised Lirath up further, and he was set on his feet. His head hung for a moment, before jerkily raising. The familiar soft blue was gone, replaced by cold, burning lich fire. His face set in a malevolent frown that it had never held in life. 

A slave to the Scourge.

“No..” Sylvanas breathed, her ears twisting back in fury. _“No!”_

She scrambled up, grabbing her broken blade-

-and a heavy, armored boot kicked her back down harshly. 

Menethil put his blade at her neck, and she glared up at him defiantly, unafraid. She spat at him, pettily satisfied at the saliva that caught on his gauntlet. “Do it then, coward.”

She would not beg for mercy from this _creature._

A cold, unsettling smirk slowly stretched across his lips. “No.”

No? A curdle of dread grew in Sylvanas’s belly. No? What possible reason would he leave her alive? What more did he think he could do to her?

Menethil stabbed his blade into the tainted earth, kneeling and grabbing her chin in a bruising hold. “No, General… not yet. Proud, arrogant elf...You’ve caused me so much hassle. I’ll kill you, and you will be mine, you will be _magnificent_ \- but not yet. Not until you beg for it. Not until you _submit."_

“I will _never_ submit.” Sylvanas hissed out from between clenched fangs, refusing to wince when he squeezed her jaw harder.

“You will.” The human promised, his smirk cruel. He shoved her back, standing up and retrieving his sword. “Take her. Put her on Invincible. She will have a first row seat to the eradication of your people, that _she_ caused.”

Sylvanas refused to cry out as what was once her brother raised its hands, frost magic curling from its fingers to create chains binding her wrists and ankles. She refused to flinch when it hauled her up, throwing her over the horse’s saddle, behind the prince, like a prized trophy and chained her further. She didn’t scream when he kicked his horse into movement, the jarring movement aggravating the injuries she had. 

Lirath- no. The thing that was once her brother followed his new master blankly, burning eyes staring into her own. She could feel Menethil’s cruel gaze on her, smugly satisfied and seeking weakness.

Sylvanas turned her head enough to seeth up at him, snarling like an animal. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain. _Never._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ###### it might have gotten a little more graphic

“Still stubborn, General?”  
That voice. That _hated voice,_ dripping with smugness and vicious pleasure.

Sylvanas raised her head, leaning against the bars behind her as the effort of it winded her. She glared through the her cage at the Lich King, curling her lips in hatred.  
She didn't know how much time had passed since Silvermoon had fallen. Didn't know how long she had been here. She only knew it had been a long time, long enough for her to become gaunt enough to slip her hand through the cage, to make her feel more skeleton than elf. Long enough that she could no longer remember what it felt like to have the pure magic of the Sunwell and nature. It had been replaced by the sick, crawling feeling of the vile necromantic magic her body had latched onto and absorbed.

But time was a nebulous construct in this underground hell. Her efforts to count the hours, to mark time somehow, had quickly been vanquished the first time she had been dragged from her cage into the Workshop. 

It was hard to concentrate when a monster wearing her dead brother's face was holding her head under frigid water, again and again, until she thought she'd drown. It hadn't stopped there, that first day. They were determined to break her, and each scream they had wrenched from her throat seemed like a victory to them.

Counting the time by marking when she was in her cage, and when she was in their hands, didn't work either. It was random, when they would take her and who. Sometimes Menethil himself, sometimes with her brother’s corpse in tow. Other times it was his pet necromancers- his Cult full of traitors- to steal her blood and peel layers from her flesh and drain magic from her. Sometimes his lich Kel’Thuzad, for use in his little experiments.

Sometimes all of them, only to stop until she was almost dead. Couldn't kill her until she broke and gave up, until she begged for him to kill and raise her, right?

But she refused.

Sylvanas didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer, letting her silence speak for her.

“It seems so,” he just sounded amused, to her growling fury. The former Prince grabbed the chain, hauling her cage in from the pit of hungry ghouls it hung above.  
His voice turned into a gentle croon, sending disgust curling through her, “Why don't you just give in, Sylvanas? You'll be so beautiful, so powerful, when we remake you. You will be _Queen._ ”

Sylvanas sneered, spitting at him as soon as she was close enough, as soon as the cage hit solid stone. She managed to hit his helmet.

She took satisfaction in it, in the way it angered him.

He tore her cage door open, armored hand darting in to grab her about the throat and haul her out. “Insolent bitch!”

He threw her across the stone, and a traitorous cry of pain escaped her despite her best efforts when her battered body impacted with unforgiving stone. She barely had the strength to get her hands under herself, and start to lever her torso up- not that it mattered. 

Menethil was there to kick her back down, to slide his armored boot under her ribs and harshly roll her over onto her back. Sylvanas grit her teeth, tears escaping her shut eyes despite her best efforts. She was already in so much pain, his handling only made her agony flare.

Metal clanked on stone. Sylvanas forced her eyes to open, finding him kneeling above her, straddling her hips.

“I grow tired of this, Sylvanas.” He hissed, grabbing her jaw in a bruising grip. Her hands tore weakly at his gauntlet, but she may as well not even tried for how effective she was. “I offer you _everything_ \- I would have you _rule by my side_ , yet you _continue_ to defy me.”

“Go to hell.” Sylvanas grit out, baring her fangs. He squeezed tighter, forcing more tears from her eyes. “I will never-”

“You will.” Menethil snarled, eyes flaring with power. His other hand raised, and he stroked a finger down her cheek, following the path of her tears. “You will.”

And then her skin was burning where he had touched, wisps of dark smoke curling into the air. He was carving into her with his magic, she realized wildly before pain flooded her senses. It was pain unlike anything else she had known or endured- seeming to burn her very soul. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All she could do was scream.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
\------------------------------

How long had it been?

He wasn’t always like this...was he? 

The elf that had once been Lirath watched dispassionately as his Master bore a living elf to the ground. It was Master’s favorite living, again. Master and Lord Kel’Thuzad took it from its cage often, but never killed it. Lord Kel’Thuzad called this living Master’s ‘plaything’. He didn’t understand. He only did to it what Master said to.

He wasn’t being told to do anything right now. Master was doing it on his own, his magic curling in the air.

The living’s screams were dull in his ears. He could see its legs kicking and thrashing, could see it- could see _her_ \- trying to escape Master. Not that she ever could.

Her? She?

What...did that mean?

What was this..this _feeling?_ Something in his chest...something...tugging at him? He hadn’t felt this before. Had he ever felt anything before? He didn’t know.

But...something was wrong. _It was wrong._ That wrongness only increased as he watched Master play with- torture- the living.

 _Torture._ Hurting. He was hurting her. _He was hurting her!_

No. Of course he was- the living had to be hurt to be saved. He shifted, canting his head as her sobs of agony reached new volume. 

Why was this...making him feel? What...what was different about this living? He had killed them before- raised them at Master’s orders.

So _why…?_

Master stood back up, tossing the living aside. 

Her face was marked now. Black burned into her cheeks by Master’s magic, water fell down the lines from her eyes. 

_Tears._ She was crying. 

Master reached down, grabbing the living by the hair to pull her up. Her gasp of pain made him lurch. 

“You’ll give in, Sylvanas.” Master spat, tossing her to him. “You will beg for my mercy, and if I’m feeling generous I may grant it.”

She lay crumbled at his feet, body jerking in pain, her eyes blank and unseeing. He stared down at her, just as blank. Lost.

“Take her to Kel’Thuzad.” Master ordered. “Put her back in her cage when he’s done with her.”

He felt Master’s orders in his soul, in every fiber of himself, as always. A command he couldn’t resist, even if he had mind to.

“Yes, Master...” He reached down, grabbing the living by her hair, as Master had. Master was leaving, fury emanating from his great form. It stirred the magic in him, urging him to follow- to kill at Master’s command.

But he had his orders. 

He tried to pull the living up like Master did, but her legs held no strength and she fell. Sylvanas fell.

 _Sylvanas._ Why did that name…?

_Take her to Kel’Thuzad._

He must listen.

He dragged her behind him as he headed to Lord Kel’Thuzad’s lab.

Sylvanas. _Sylvanas._

What was so important about that word? What- no, _why_ was he feeling?

Why could he even think? Or...could he always? Had there been a time before now where there weren’t only Master’s thoughts?

“Ah, Lirath!” Lord Kel’Thuzad greeted him with the word Master used to call him. “And you’ve brought Sylvanas to me. Ah, and you’re sporting a new look, my dear! That must have been painful. You really musn’t test my King the way you do.”

The living- Sylvanas, _Sylvanas!_ \- didn’t answer. She didn’t stir.

Lord Kel’Thuzad made a tsking noise, gesturing at a table with one skeletal hand. “Go and put her there, Lirath. I do wish you were more alert, my dear. I have a new experiment- and I had hoped for feedback.”

He lifted the living at the command, setting her on the metal slab. 

Lord Kel’Thuzad leaned over her, bony fingers poking and prodding. Grabbing and testing. Scratching to draw blood. Pulling and twisting.

It was wrong. Something in him rebelled, made him want to strike Lord Kel’Thuzad. But _why?_

“Bah,” the lich straightened back up, waving dismissively. “Useless. Throw her in her coffin, if Master wants to have her out of her cage.”

He dipped his head and picked up the other elf. His feet carried him automatically out of the lab, heading to a small room near Master’s quarters where a steel coffin waited. Sometimes Master put the liv- put _Sylvanas_ in it, and had him stand and wait until Master ordered her out.

Why? Why was that word, that _name,_ so important? Why was he hesitating, stopping in the middle of the corridor.  
...Why was he following these orders, allowing them to hurt his sister?

Sister? What was-

Sylvanas.

_His sister._

Lirath almost dropped her in shock, looking down at her broken form as his mind finally snapped back into place. Lirath was his _name,_ not just a word Master used to call him. No, not his Master. Never again. Arthas Menethil- a monster, a self-proclaimed king. The Lich King.

His name was Lirath, and the unconscious elf in his arms was his sister- who he had watched be tortured. Who he had been ordered to torture. He was dead, but she was still alive- she still defied, when he had let his mind be captured. She resisted and lived through all this torture- and Lirath hadn’t even _tried._

He had to get her out of here. But how?

Ghouls and other dead surrounded them, mindlessly following the Lich King’s orders as he once had. They would stop him. They would give her back to the Lich King to hurt.

No. _No more._

Rage boiled in him. At himself and his weakness, and at the Lich King for all he had done.

He would put a stop to it all. He would kill them, and free Sylvanas- but he couldn’t do it alone. There had to be others like him- _there had to be._ He would free them, all of them, all that Menethil had enslaved, and they would have their revenge.  
But for now…for now Lirath had to act like he was still under his thrall. Until he could find others. But he wouldn’t be a part of this- of his sister’s torture- if he could help it. He turned on his heel, heading back. 

His orders were to put her back in her cage when Kel’Thuzad was done. He would put her back, keep her from the coffin. He would keep her cage on stone, instead of hanging over the pit. For as long as he could. He would defy in any way he could.

Lirath laid her in the wrought iron cage as gently as possible, swallowing heavily when even that seemed too rough.

“Hold on, Sylvanas.” Lirath whispered, staring at her unresponsive form. His heart lurched at the tear tracks burned into her cheeks, and his thumb hovered over one. “I’ll save you- I promise. _Just hold on._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully thats as graphic as it will get


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ###### a little graphic again

**13 years ago  
**********

What was the point anymore? His mother, his father, his _family_...they were all gone. Gone, and he hadn’t been able to save a single one. He was useless….why was he still alive? Why had he lived, when he could barely fight?

“Lirath.”

Alleria was gone too. Lost beyond the Dark Portal. She had only joined the expedition for revenge, because the entire rest of their family had been killed. Because Lirath hadn’t been able to save them.

“Lirath?”

Lirath barely heard his sister, staring listlessly at nothing. Why hadn’t his mother survived instead? She had been Ranger-General, even if retired for a few centuries. She would know what to do. She could _help_. All he could do was get in the way.

 _“Lirath._ ”

“You should have let them kill me.” Lirath said, voice hollow. “I don’t deserve to be alive. I can’t do anything.”

Strong hands took hold of his shirt, dragging him up, and he found his face level with Sylvanas’s angry, grief-filled eyes. “Don’t you _dare_ say that! Don’t you _ever_ say that!”

“What am I supposed to do?” Lirath burst out, holding onto her wrists and straightening up. He was taller than her. When had that happened? “I can’t- I couldn't save any of them! What’s the point of pretending otherwise? I may as well give up!”

“ _We don’t give up, Lirath!”_ Sylvanas shook him. “We get up, and we. Keep. Going.”

“How?!”

“Keep fighting, Lirath.” Vereesa added over her shoulder. He hadn't even noticed she was there. Both of them had tears dripping down their cheeks. “That’s what we all do. Just like they taught us. No matter what happens, no matter what cost. _We keep fighting_.” 

“...I can’t fight.” He croaked. “I’ve tried…”

“Then ‘fight’ in some other way.” Sylvanas let him go, only to pull him into a hug. She held out her other arm, and Vereesa instantly joined the embrace. “Whatever way you can. Play music for us. Tell stories. Talk and laugh and _live_. Even that is fighting.”

Lirath let out a heartbroken sob, clutching his sisters tight. Everything _hurt_ so much.

“Promise me, Lirath.” Sylvanas whispered fiercely into his hair. “Promise me you’ll keep fighting, in whatever way you can. No matter what happens, whatever it takes, you keep fighting.”

He nodded, slumping further into their embrace so he could lean against her shoulder, like he had when he was a child, when she seemed larger than life. “I promise.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
\--------------------------------

_No matter what happens._

Lirath set his jaw, playing the mindless servant as he watched Menethil torture Sylvanas again. He couldn’t challenge him outright. He couldn’t try to fight him with brute force.

It would only result in his second death, and Sylvanas being killed. Or captive forever.

He had to free her. He _had to_. And to do that, he had to be patient. He had to let her suffer, and do nothing. He had to torture her when ordered, and not react. He almost couldn’t do it, but he was a Windrunner. _Whatever it takes._

Lirath was never an officer, never a soldier, but he lived with them. He was like a child in tactics compared to his mother and Sylvanas and even Vereesa, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize that he needed allies, and a plan.

He was working on allies. Something was weakening the power over them it had to be- but he didn’t know what, nor did he care. All that mattered was he had already freed a handful of others. Rangers, in life. Some of Sylvanas’s best. Twisted into ghostly banshees now.

But he had managed to free them- managed to grab them one at a time with his magic and call them back, powering through the weakening hold on their minds. Maybe Lirath didn’t know _much_ about tactics, but they did. Areiel had found their bodies stored in one of Kel’Thuzad’s workshops, and they were planning to reclaim them. They were all freeing more undead when they could- and the banshees had proved even better at that than him.

They were slowly gathering an army of free undead, and collecting weapons in preparation to strike. It would be soon, but would it be soon enough? 

“You had a new chemical.”

The dark voice brought his attention away from his plans. If his heart still beat, it would have stopped.  
Kel’Thuzad hmmed, tapping his bony fingers against a counter. “I do, but I’m not sure she’ll survive it. My other test subjects have all gotten high fevers, seizures, hallucinations- I’ve had three die already, and they were in good health.”

“She’ll live.” Menethil growled, “She’s too stubborn to die. Get it.”

Lirath forced himself not to move, suddenly absurdly glad that his dead body made it easier to stand frozen.

“Very well, but I have warned you if she does, Master.” Kel’Thuzad produced a small vial, a noxious red potion inside. 

“Lirath.” Menethil turned his glowing gaze on him, “Hold her mouth open.”

Whatever it takes.

Lirath obeyed, moving forward to grasp his sister’s jaw and force it open, trying to be gentle as possible without being too obvious about it.

She was only semi-coherent, just enough to paw weakly at his hands and snarl at Menethil.

The former prince held out his hand, taking the vial from the lich. “Bottoms up,” He growled, unstoppering it and pouring it down Sylvanas’s throat.

_Whatever it takes._

Mentally whispering an apology, Lirath kept his hold firm, watching her sputter and choke as it slid down her throat. 

Menethil threw the empty vial aside, knocking Lirath’s hands away. He held his hand over Sylvana’s mouth, fingers digging into either side of her jaw. “You will wish you had accepted, Sylvanas.” He said, squeezing tighter as she thrashed. 

When he deemed it time enough, he let go.

Sylvanas coughed harshly, spitting out what little she managed not to swallow. It wasn’t much. Still, the corrupted human backhanded her. Hard enough to leave her dazed and clinging to the last remnants of her consciousness. 

“Put her back in her cage.” Menethil ordered, “And hang it back out over the pit.”

“Yes, Master.” Lirath dipped his head, taking hold of Sylvanas. He had to be harsh in dragging her off, he had to seem like he didn’t care- like he didn’t have his mind.  
They would have to be faster, move their timetable up. He needed to find one of the banshees, get word to Areiel.

Lirath set Sylvanas in her cage as gently as he dared noticing worriedly that sweat was already beading at her temples, her chest heaving with labored breaths. They were out of time, if it was already taking hold. They needed to act _now_.

It killed him to push her cage back over the pit, to leave her there, but he needed to find his allies. Ready or not, it was time.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
\--------------------------------

“Are we ready?” Lirath murmured, feeling a chilly presence alight near him.

“We are.” Sharlindra said just as quietly. “Areiel and the others have retaken their bodies. They’ve lined the path he will take, along with Leana’s forces. All weapons have been poisoned.”

“The undead moving with him?”

“We have freed as many as we can, Darnell has armed them as well as he was able.” Sharlindra shifted closer, “Melisara has taken control of the nearby murloc leader. They stand ready to help as soon as the trap is sprung.”

He hadn’t expected murlocs, but he wasn’t going to complain. “And here?”

“Myself and Alina are ready to defend Sylvanas. Visceri and Aelthalyste are in place to take down Kel’Thuzad, and Gorth is going to lead the abominations against the cultists.”

“Let us hope it is enough.” Lirath closed his eyes briefly. 

“There’s more.” Sharlindra hesitantly said. Her ghostly visage was uncertain when he looked to her. “Those dreadlords- they are interested in removing Menethil. Two have joined Leana. The third is part of the force moving with Menethil.”

No. No, no, no! “How did they even find out?” Lirath hissed. It was falling apart. Demons weren’t trustworthy- how could he know they hadn’t already alerted Menethil to the plan?

“They overheard. We have no choice but to believe them.” The banshee pointed out, shaking her head. “Sylvanas will not survive much longer.”

She was right. She was right, and it killed him. They were so close, and this could bring it all down. He didn’t have anything planned for this! They wouldn’t make it without surprise on their side.

“Arthas is calling for you.” 

There was no time left to think about it. Lirath clenched his eyes shut, for just a moment. To remind himself what was at stake, to firm his resolve. “No matter what happens, whatever it takes,”

“For Sylvanas.” Sharlindra intoned. It had become their guiding force, their inspiration to keep their will alive, to fight against the creeping power pressing against all their minds. Sylvanas had yet to submit. She still resisted. She still spat on Menethil, still forced enough strength and awareness to resist him.

If she could do it, broken and starving, hallucinating and dying of fever, then so could they.

He gave one last look to the cage holding his older sister. Then Lirath was putting back on his blank face, playing the mindless slave once more, his feet carrying him towards where the Lich King was gathering the force that would move with him. It became his mantra, repeating over and over in his mind as he marched with the rest, at Menethil’s side. No matter what happens, whatever it takes. 

It carried him through it, his feet moving mindlessly. It surprised even him when murlocs burst from undergrowth with savage growls.

Menethil greeted it with laughing disdain, pointing his sword, commanding them to attack. Not bothering to dismount his horse.

The mindless undead surged forward to follow his command, howling and wailing.

_No matter what happens, whatever it takes!_

Lirath took the dagger he had smuggled into his ragged clothes. He leapt, stabbing the blade in his side, between the gaps of Menethil’s armor. “Now!”

“For Sylvanas!” Darnell shouted, his forces taking the fight to Lich King’s minions that turned as one to Lirath. “For Lirath!”

Arrows flew from the trees, finding whatever target they could, piercing his armor with the strength they flew with. Free undead and the dreadlords surged in with the murlocs, falling upon the bellowing abominations. Gargoyles rained from the sky, pierced with yet more arrows.

Menethil was knocked from his steed, paralyzed by the poison Kalira had concocted. The undead horse was felled by a swing of a dreadlord’s claws.

It seemed over in the blink of an eye. Lirath was standing dumbly where he landed after stabbing the Lich King. Bodies littered the ground. The remaining ghouls and zombies were pinned by Lirath’s free undead.

They...they won?

His allies approached, bows and swords and makeshift weapons pointed as they surrounded the downed ‘King’. _They won._

“Do it then.” The former prince found enough movement to gurgle, eyes burning with hatred. 

“No.” Lirath found his voice. He shifted closer, starting to shake. “You’re going to suffer. As she suffered. As _we_ all did.” He knelt before him, jerking his dagger free from his side with a harsh moment.

Rage was suddenly all he knew. Hatred. For all the cowardly, corrupted human had done to Quel’thalas, to his people, to his sister. To him. For all Menethil had _forced_ him to do. 

“You will beg for death.” Lirath whispered, “And if I’m feeling merciful, I may grant it.”

His magic was still there. Dark and cold and slimy, where it had once been warm, but it was there. Lirath called dark fire to his hands, feeling the contradicting frigid chill of it.  
He would burn him with this. Make him scream, as he had made so many others. Lirath would show just as much mercy as he had!

Before he could cast, a spear of ice flew past his face, stabbing through a dreadlord’s forehead.

The other two roared, and Lirath sprang away as more flurries of ice and bolts of dark rushed past. His forces scattered, ducking away from the danger. With screeching whinnies, a handful of undead horses plowed through, ridden by Kel’Thuzad and his cultists. The lich shouted a word of power, and Menethil’s steed rose to his hooves. The ghouls and abominations the free undead had felled rose again, letting out bestial howls.

Lirath shouted and flung his handful of dark fire, catching one of the cultists. He was forced to duck out of the way when Kel’Thuzad charged him, his magic curling around Menethil and lifting him to his horse. Then they were running away.

“They’re getting away!” One of the dreadlords screeched. “After them!”

Lirath stared after the fleeing cultists, numbness sinking in to his limbs. The freed undead were looking to him, waiting for orders. Some of the Scourge were still there, held down by Lirath’s allies, waiting to be freed. They could run after them...but…

“Lirath!” Sharlindra flew down from the sky, a squadron of banshees with her. She swirled next to him, spectral hair waving in wild tendrils. “We have taken Lordaeron! Kel’Thuzad fled-”

“I know.” Lirath stopped her, still staring where they had run. “He took Menethil.”

“Are...we going after them?” Areiel joined them, an arrow still nocked.

“No.”

“What?” The demon demanded. “He killed our brother!”

“Go get him then!” Lirath felt the anger come back, and he whirled on the demons with a show of fangs and a flash of dark magic, “We lost our advantage- they are expecting us to follow. They’ve fled to where he has more minions to call. We have the city. We will recover, free more of his slaves, gather our army! We _will_ have revenge, but not today.”

“He killed our brother!” The dreadlord repeated, drawing himself up to his full, massive height and spreading his wings in a display of intimidation. “I demand we-”

“You do not get to demand anything!” Lirath shouted back. “We are not your allies, we are not your servants! We did not ask for your help, nor did we need it!”

“You filthy vermin _dare-!_ ” 

Arrows and rusty blades were pointed, their wielders bristling defensively. The demon stopped, claw upraised. “I suggest you leave,” Lirath said coldly, raising his own magic covered fist. “Go after him by yourselves. Take the murlocs, if you must. I don’t care. We have what we wanted.”

Growling lowly, the two demons started to back away. The head murloc, under a banshee’s control, gargled out a command and the amphibious creatures grudgingly followed them.

“You have made an enemy.” The closest dreadlord promised darkly.

Lirath didn’t respond, watching them leave. “Leana.”

The rogue appeared at his side, her yellow eyes narrowed after their retreating forms. “Aye?”

“Take Clea, Vorel, and two others. Follow them. If Menethil doesn’t kill them…”

“I understand.” Leana rasped, gesturing at two of her people. The five undead quickly vanished, trailing the demons. 

Lirath turned once they were gone, looking over the forces he had amassed. All looking at him, waiting.

“Sharlindra, is Sylvanas…?”

“Still breathing. Still unconscious.” The banshee confirmed. “Alina is with her.”

“Good. We’re going back.” Lirath tried to put as much command in his voice as he could. Tried to emulate the way his sisters and mothers had carried themselves. He wasn’t a leader. But they looked to him like he was, so he had to _act_ like one. “We’re going to free the rest of the Scourge, and make sure the city is secure.”

And he would see with his own eyes that Sylvanas was still alive. That he, that _they_ , had done it. Saved her.

“And after?” Darnell rumbled. 

“We find allies, and we take Menethil down.” Lirath started back towards the city at a quick pace, both emboldened and terrified by the way they fell into step alongside and behind him. Following him. 

_They had won._


	4. Chapter 4

Gorth was waiting for them in the ruins of Capital City when they returned, standing guard before the entrance to the throne room.

The grounds were laden with corpses.

Cultists who hadn't fled fast enough. Gargoyles, blighthounds and Nerubians. Ghouls and zombies and abominations, mindless Scourge. Though some, no doubt, were free undead who had perished in the fight.

More of them were toiling about, stacking bodies and shifting rubble to later clear. 

Lirath picked his way around them, eyes locked on the hulking abomination. His hook had fresh viscera on it, and blood spattered across the stitched together skin.

“Lich King dead?” Gorth boomed, bulging eye rolling to focus on Lirath. 

“Escaped. Kel’Thuzad rescued him.” 

The abomination grunted. Thumped his huge cleaver on the floor. “Puny cult men and lich too fast. Visceri lost arm. We kill, but they run.”

“Yes, but we’ll find them.” Lirath slipped by him, hurried steps carrying him down the catacombs to the diapilated stairwell. An unfinished elevator that led to the system of tunnels and sewers Menethil had intended to make as his stronghold. “You all did good, Gorth.”

Sharlindra said Sylvanas was still breathing, but he had to check. He had to see with his own eyes.

He heard the stairs creaking dangerously behind him under the weight of the abomination and makeshift army. Lirath paid it no mind, not noticing when Sharlindra matched his pace, hovering at his side. Nor the remaining rangers dogging his heels, just as eager to see that their former general still lived. 

He didn’t notice the stares of the undead he passed in the underground city, how they stopped in their work. Under the roaring in his ears, Lirath could hear grief filled keening echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. His eyes flickered to the side now and again, seeing undead curled in on themselves, knotting their bony hands in brittle hair and pressing their faces to their knees.

Though he pitied them, though he wanted to stop and draw them to their feet and urge them to keep going, as Sylvanas had done for him so long ago- he couldn’t. Not until he saw his sister. Lirath leapt over them when needed, pace quickening even more. 

_Sylvanas_. He had to get to her.   
“We moved her to the room with the coffin.” Sharlindra’s echoing voice was the only thing that gave him pause. “It was safer there.”

If he had still been capable of throwing up, Lirath was sure bile would have risen in his throat. He hated the thought of her there, in the room where she had been sealed in the iron box more than once. But it made sense in terms of strategy, even to him. It was in the same hall as Menethil’s chambers, only one way in and out, in the form of a small hallway hidden in the antechamber.

Hissing to himself, Lirath switched directions, all but running now towards the antechamber. Countless footsteps echoed behind him, but he was deaf to it. 

Lirath burst into the circular room, cresting the dias and stopping short. 

A massive abomination, even bigger than Gorth, stood in the entrance of the hallway, blocking it with his bulk alone. The stone around him was filthy with blood stains, and chunks of what Lirath could only describe as meat. His stitched hide was torn and filled with cuts dripping viscous ichor. A spear jutted out from his shoulder, a sword from his gut, and a dagger was in one eye. 

The abomination slammed his mace against his hook at the sight of Lirath, third hand waving a cleaver threateningly. “No one pass!” He bellowed, clanging his mace again in challenge. “Back! Murp protect Dark Lady!”

“It is only Lirath, Murp.” Sharlindra swirled above him, spectral voice calm and soothing. “The danger is gone.”

“Oh.” Murp grunted, shifting to move and unblock the hall. The dagger in his eye moved disconcertingly as he looked around at them. “That fine then. Lirath good.”

“Thank you Murp,” Lirath choked out, hurrying down the hall. “For protecting her.”

“No one pass Murp.” He heard the abomination declare proudly, but Lirath couldn’t offer more than a distracted twitch of his ear as he threw open the left-hand door.

Alina was inside, perched on the edge of the iron coffin. Her bow was in her hands, an arrow nocked. The lid of the coffin was against the far wall, bent out of shape as if it had been ripped off and thrown. Alina frowned at him, slowly standing and putting the arrow in her quiver. “Is he dead?”

“Escaped, with the help of Kel’Thuzad,” Lirath dropped to his knees at the coffin’s side, hands catching the lip. Sylvanas looked impossibly small inside, her emaciated body wrapped in a dark cloak. Her eyes moved rapidly under her closed lids, mouth parting to let out labored, wheezy breaths, chest heaving with the effort. Sweat darkened the dirty hair at her temples, her otherwise pallid face flushed with fever. The same as she had been for days now.

Lirath’s throat tightened, anger churning in his gut. “Why is she in this?”

_Why?_ Alina knew how she had been locked and sealed inside for days- how it had been used to torment her- why would she put Sylvanas back inside, even if unconscious? Why would she subject her to it? He could almost _hear_ her shouting and crying, locked away in cold, dark isolation.

“There was nowhere else to put her.” Alina said defensively. “It seemed better than the stone floor. Safer.”

That...made sense. He didn’t like it, but it made sense. Lirath reached into the coffin, touching Sylvanas’s cheek lightly. Inwardly begging her to wake up. Even to just glare and snarl and curse at him, thinking him only Scourge.

She flinched at the touch, her eyes moving faster, but didn’t otherwise stir.

“We need healing herbs.” Lirath said, withdrawing his hand and looking up at Alina pleadingly, his anger forgotten. “Fresh water, blankets, _anything_.”

“Now that we have the city, we can get them.” She assured him, gentling her tone and lifting him up to his feet. “We can help her.”

“There are bound to be healers among our numbers.” Areiel added. Lirath jumped, stumbling and spinning around. He hadn’t noticed the rangers entering with him. “With varying degrees of memory, maybe, but there _must_ be, with how many Menethil slaughtered and raised.”

“Find them, all of them! Even if all they know is how to make a poultice!” Lirath found himself ordering. Acting like he was their leader when he had no right to be, and they had no reason to listen to him. _Him_ , who they all knew in life as the Ranger-General’s bumbling little nobody brother. 

The fervor left him suddenly. Who was he to continue giving orders? He went to stammer out an apology, but Areiel dipped her head, acknowledging his order. “Yes, my lord.”

_Lord?_

“The others are waiting.” Sharlindra spoke before he could protest the title. The banshee drifted into his view, gesturing one clawed hand back towards the antechamber. “They want news of what happened… and your orders for what we do now.”

“I- I shouldn’t be making that decision!” Lirath baulked, casting a look to his unconscious sister. She was the leader, not him. Sylvanas would have a plan, would know what to do, would get them to listen to her, and inspire them to follow her come hell or highwater. Not him, not Lirath. “I’m the _least_ qualified for leading us!”

It was bad enough that his makeshift army had all looked to him. Bad enough that he had given orders to them and they had _listened_ as if he actually knew what he was doing. He didn’t- he _didn’t_ and he’d just muck it up and-

“You freed us.” Kalira pointed out softly, drawing him out of his despairing thoughts. “Without you, we would still be His mindless slaves. His monsters. You are the _most_ qualified to lead us. We all think so. They’re already calling you King.”

_King?_ As if Lord wasn’t bad enough. He couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t-_ “I’ve never led anything!”

Velonara gave him a flat look. “Was it someone else, then, who orchestrated plan to ambush the Lich King? Was it someone else who managed to form an army right below his nose? Who led them to freedom and victory?”

Lirath twitched, ears lowering in embarrassment. “I… that was different. I wanted Sylvanas safe.” And it had been improvised and hastily executed. His plan hadn’t even worked, not completely. Menethil had gotten away, after all.

“And she isn’t yet.” Sharlindra drifted closer, staring seriously into his eyes. “None of us are, while the Lich King is still out there. So lead us. For Sylvanas, if nothing else.”

_For Sylvanas._

For Sylvanas, he could do this. He could lead. Or try, at least.

Sharlindra must have seen his new resolve. She nodded, drifting aside to clear the doorway. “They’re waiting.”

Lirath cast one last look at his sister. He didn’t want to leave her. Not when she looked so weak, so close to death. But he had to. “Alina, Lyana, stay with her.”

“We will.”

Lirath set off, back down the hallway, Sharlindra at his side and the rangers at his back. He tried to straighten his posture, to project the presence of calm command that came so naturally to his mother and his sisters- but that he could never quite get right. 

The antechamber was filled to the brim, and back into the hallway beyond. Hundreds of hollow eyed undead of all kinds, all staring at him. In...awe?

Once again, he was wildly, absurdly grateful that death had given him the ability to remain near emotionless and frozen. Lirath walked up onto the dias, the only place that had been left clear, and just...looked.

All of these people... looking to _him_.

“The Lady Sylvanas…” Darnell took a half step forward, rusted sword still in hand. “Is she…?”

“Alive still.” Lirath assured, and there was a rattling sound as hundreds of undead made sounds of relief. Breath they didn’t need hissing out of decayed lungs. “But barely. We need healers-”

“But what about Menethil?” A voice called out from the crowd, halting his plea.

Lirath swept his gaze over all of them again, folding his hands behind his back and digging the nails of one hand into the other to ground himself. A sensation he found he could barely feel, but needed all the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sharlindra give a barely perceptible nod. “Escaped. Rescued by Kel’thuzad.”

Furious murmurs and growls greeted that, many shifting restlessly, glaring at everything and yet nothing. Angry at him, or at themselves, Lirath didn’t know. But it didn’t matter.

“He won’t escape us forever,” Lirath let their anger feed the cold rage he could still feel in himself. Letting it strengthen him, ease the nerves he felt at being in command. “We will find him. We will make him _pay_.”

“How?” The call sent a hush over the room. A hulking troll, half his face ripped off and leaving only bone, shoved his way forward. Lirath didn’t recognize him, he must have been only recently freed. “You couldn’t kill ‘im in an _ambush_. You think we can jus’ march up an’ defeat ‘im?”

That set off another round of murmuring, hundreds of decaying faces now looking at him in uncertainty.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of undead here. More than he thought, more than he had dared to hope. Ready to fight, to reap their vengeance, to reform their army at greater numbers as he said and hunt the Lich King down... But they still had nowhere _near_ the numbers Menethil had at his command, even if they bolstered their forces by freeing the Scourge still milling about in the nearby areas. They couldn’t even stop Kel’thuzad and now the two were prepared, aware of their resistance.

They would be crushed and eradicated. Provided the Lich King didn’t exert his control over them all again.

“...No.” Lirath said honestly, standing frozen and not flinching at the despair he could now see. At what he _felt_. He floundered for a moment, voice dying in the face of their heartbreak and hopelessness.

The remaining flesh of the troll’s face pulled into a disgusted sneer. “Useless boy!”

Those around him turned on him in outrage, gnashing their teeth at the troll. “Show respect!” Darnell snarled, pointing his blade. “We would be mindless slaves without Lord Windrunner!”

“We gonna be that again if the Lich King comes back!” He knocked the sword aside carelessly, jutting his broken tusks forward. “Th’ boy couldn’t even kill him!”

A small handful of other trolls shouldered their way through the crowd, glowering at the smaller undead humans and standing with their fellow troll.

With...their ally. 

Ready to fight with him. To defend him.

They needed allies. _More_ allies, ones not susceptible to the pull of the Lich. The inspiration struck him, forming a rough plan. Unconsciously Lirath straightened his spine, staring directly at the troll. “No, as it stands, we can’t defeat him. Not _alone,_ at least.”

The brewing fight stopped, more than one withered brow furrowing in confusion.

They needed allies- but where to get them? Who would care to help undead besides- besides family, maybe.

“We- or most of us- were part of the Alliance.” Lirath explained, forming his plan on the spot. “Are _still_ part of the Alliance. We will go to them, rejoin them. Humans, dwarves, gnomes, the kaldorei- together, we _will_ be able to defeat the Lich King.”

The more he thought of it, the more he liked it. There were doubtlessly people here who had families still, in other parts of the Alliance that still stood. Kul’Tiras or Stormwind or Dalaran, hell even the dwarves of Khaz Modan! _Somewhere_ would take them in. They would fight with them against the Lich King, help them reclaim what they could of their lives. Help them heal and find purpose again.

And more importantly, they would be better able to help Sylvanas and save her life.

“My Lord…” Areiel hesitantly drew his attention, “The Alliance… they didn’t come when Quel’thalas- when _we_ \- needed them.”

“Gilneas closed their door on us.” Visceri stepped out of the crowd to add dourly.

“I died banging on those damn gates!” “They fired arrows at us when we tried to climb them!” “ _Dalaran_ didn’t even help Quel’thalas-” “Dalaran is gone now anyway, I think.” “Stromgarde too.”

“Enough!” Dark fire flashed around Lirath as he shouted, that foreign, cold anger so easy to come forward. “We have _no choice!_ We need the Alliance! Dalaran and Gilneas are not the only places we can go. There are others. Places, even, where some of you may have family left.”

No one spoke, seemingly wary of earning his ire again. Not without cause, he thought. The anger, it scared him too. He tamped it back down, digging his nails harder into his skin.

“Well?” Lirath asked a bit impatiently, once he was sure he wouldn’t shout. It was a very near thing. The longer they waited, the weaker Sylvanas became. “ _Do_ any of you have family elsewhere?”

“I’m from Stormwind,” A woman cautiously offered, “My family is there.”

“I got in-laws in Kul’Tiras,” Another said, and that seemed to break open the flood-gates. It turned out great number of them had family elsewhere, which could only be a boon for them. Surely, their families would welcome them back.

“Even if we had a ship, Kul’Tiras would blow us out of the water before we made it to the island.” Sharlindra pointed out quietly. “They’re quite reclusive now.” 

Lirath’s burgeoning hope soured. Kul’Tiras was the closest to them, the quickest help he could get for Sylvanas.

Khaz Modan was next… but even if Lirath knew how to get to Ironforge, Sylvanas wouldn’t survive for long in the frigid mountain snow. And the dwarves would be even more likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

That left…

Stormwind. On the other side of the continent.

Lirath hissed out a curse, clenching his fist to quell the flames he could feel building. It would take _weeks_ to get there! Weeks Sylvanas may not have! But, it seemed he had no choice.

His eyes darted about as he thought. A ship would be fastest still, but they didn’t have a ship and he couldn’t procure one on wishing alone. They had no dragonhawks. No gryphons. They had _nothing_ \- 

Except stables of dead horses. 

Dead horses that Lirath could raise.

They would need no rest, if raised into undeath. They would be able to run forever, as fast as his magic could push. And that… that could drastically shorten the time it took to reach Stormwind. There may even be gryphon corpses around! But first-

“Any of you with healing experience, report to Captain Areiel!” Lirath ordered, and the mentioned captain snapped to attention. “Darnell, take everyone you need and find the remains of every horse or gryphon you can. Raid the nearby villages if you have to, but bring them _all_ to me! Visceri, take the rest- find blankets, cloaks, herbs, untainted water, _anything_ of use for the healers! We stabilize Sylvanas, and we ride for Stormwind!”

The undead raised their voices, banging their fists on sunken chests and roaring their approval and agreement, “For Sylvanas!” 

“An’ what if we don’ want to be Alliance?” The loud voice cut through the noise. The same troll challenged him, yellow eyes flashing as he spat on the ground at Darnell’s. “I won’t be joining any humans. Or following an elf, much less helpin’ _Sylvanas Windrunner_.”

Weapons were drawn once more, former humans and elves turning on the trolls furiously. “The Dark Lady-” 

“Leave, then.” Lirath snapped, stopping them and tipping his head towards the exit. The way the troll said his sister’s name set him on edge. Made him want to put Murp in front of the hall again, to defend Sylvanas, even though no real threat had been made. It made him want to smite the troll where he stood. The rangers he could see felt the same, for they were all slowly backing up to better defend the hallway, fingering the arrows in their quivers. “No one is forcing you to stay. No one is forcing _anyone_ to stay.”

The troll didn’t seem to be expecting that, aggressive posture deflating somewhat.

“We are not slaves, anymore.” Lirath said to the room at large. “We have our own will, and our freedom to choose. You don’t have to stay.”

Hesitantly, as if expecting a trick, the troll started to back away. The small group of trolls joined him once more. “I be goin’ back to Zul’Aman.” He warned.

“I wish you luck.” Lirath dismissed him, watching carefully as they left, still wary. Half expecting them to turn and try and charge him. They didn’t, of course, and though hostility remained, the sea of undead parted to let them pass, and closed back up when they had.

“That goes for all of you.” Lirath called out, a lump in his throat. “You can leave, go elsewhere. You can stay, if you want. You don’t have to follow my orders, or me, if you do stay. You can _choose_ what you want to do.”

His free undead were silent, staring at him with their hollow, glowing eyes. They seemed awed once more, almost amazed.

“I will gladly follow you, my King.” Darnell spoke first, taking a step forward. He held his sword to his chest and bowed low. “You freed me, from a fate worse even than this curse. My life is yours, and Lady Sylvanas’s.”

All around him, the undead were bowing or kneeling in deference. Every single one. Looking at him as though he hung the stars. “My King.” “Hail the King.” The whispers rang out, filling the room with the hissing sound.

King. No. There was one undead King out there already, and he wouldn’t be _anything_ like him. How long, Lirath wondered, would it take for him to believe his superiority of they called him king? How long until they referred to him as a Lich King, as he was closer now, to being a lich than anything else? How many comparisons would be made, if he could raise undead?

“I am no King.” Lirath shook his head, gesturing sharply. No. He didn’t want to be called King, didn’t want _any_ comparison between him and Menethil. “The undead follow no more Kings!”

If they needed a monarch, then let Sylvanas be Queen when she woke. Let her take the leadership from him- she was already their guiding force. Their symbol of willpower. It seemed only right that she lead.

“Our Lord, then.” Sharlindra hovered close to smooth over the distress gathering amongst the undead. Though Lirath could tell it wouldn’t be the end of it. “We follow you, to victory.”

Lirath nodded tightly, letting it drop and casting a gaze at the undead still kneeling. “Find me the horses, quickly. And all healers, to Areiel!” 

He stepped off the dias towards the former rangers as a flurry of action started behind him. Areiel took his place, calling the healers to her. Darnell and Visceri were grabbing the others, shoving their way from the antechamber even as others tried to scramble in to reach Areiel. 

It was all he could really do, and yet… why did it feel like there was more? Like he wasn’t doing enough? “Velonara, gather twenty to take with you to the coast, see if there are salvageable ships at the ports.” Lirath ordered. It would still be worth it, to scout and to see. To have a backup plan. “Kalira, Thyala, scout out Dalaran and Gilneas, see what remains of them, or if there is help to be found. Cyndia, Marrah- go North. Find out…see... see if there is a safe route to Quel’thalas.”

Find out what, if anything, remained of their home and people. He was too much of a coward to say the words.

The two rangers twitched as if struck. He didn’t need to say it aloud for them to understand, but bowed their heads to acknowledge his order.

Lirath slipped by them, heading back to Sylvanas, half listening to Areiel organize the healers behind him. Alina and Lyana stepped aside in deference, bowing their heads and letting him approach the coffin.

“I’ll get you help,” Lirath promised in a whisper, kneeling once more at the iron coffin. His finger hovered over the black tear tracks burned into his sister’s gaunt face. “I promise, Sylvanas. I’ll get you help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewrote this damn thing like. 5 times. 5 and a half maybe  
> Too Many Times

**Author's Note:**

> If the rating should change, or you feel anything should be tagged better, please let me know :)


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